


Tribute

by Artsada



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Come Shot, Comeplay, Consent Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fingerfucking, Gangbang, Hand & Finger Kink, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgy, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scotty wasn't on deck, Volcanisms, Voyeurism, amtdi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artsada/pseuds/Artsada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's; and unto God the things that are God's"…  and unto the Captain the things which are so very, very dirty. [No spoilers as far as I am aware, but meta-influenced by STID, set sometime during the first Five-Year Mission. Warning: overarching consent issues - AMTDI.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tribute

 Captains Log. Stardate: 2263.72.

 

_Enterprise hailed friendly at 12.17 Ship’s time, by unknown entity. Signal originating from indistinguishable proximal location, I directed Lieutenant Uhura to accept transmission whilst shields were maintained on full and bridge crew stood on alert. When transmission feed was brought up on main screens, no visual message was received. All crew attendant recall a high frequency sound emission, perhaps the vocalisation of an unfamiliar life form, but more likely of technological origin._

_Transmission terminated at precisely 15.17. Possible temporal anomaly: bridge crew report no memory of the three intervening hours. All ship’s functions nominal, no attempts to breach shields reported at this time. Security feed recorded only static._

_Recommendation: Uncommon but not alarming. Starlocation has been recorded, file with warning to all Starfleet ranking personnel to exercise due caution._

_Signing off,  
_

_Captain James. T ---_

Kirk was interrupted by the polite chime of his PADD, notifying him of an incoming urgent message. Having requested Scotty make a full inventory of the ship’s defences, and alert to the possibility of as-yet-undiscovered breaches, he paused the recorder and selected the transmitted file.

Immediately, the PADD screen blanked, dead and unresponsive. About to throw the damn thing across the room, Kirk was arrested by the sound of laboured breathing. Expanding from the centre of the screen was an image… no, a vid.

And that was the Command Chair of the USS Enterprise. _His_ chair, damn it.

 

* * *

 

Kirk is in the Chair and McCoy stands beside him, one hand resting casually on the Captain’s shoulder as around them the bridge buzzes with activity.

Uhura hums distractingly from her position, kneeling between his wide-spread thighs, and fucks her mouth down harder on Kirk’s cock, twisting a little with a bare edge of teeth, just the way he likes it. The zipper too bites at him with its cold metal teeth as he sits, fully dressed, fly of his ‘Fleet issue uniform pants opened just enough to free the throbbing, aching, length of his erection. Everything is sticky-wet and warm, the material of his pants soaked and stained with spit and spunk and _need_. Uhura is moaning now, slamming Kirk’s cock up against the back of her throat and choking, swallowing, trying her damndest to eat him whole as she fucks three long, tapered fingers up into her pussy with the same convulsive rhythm. The hem of her uniform skirt rides up-down-up with her slow gyrating thrusts, flashing glimpses of slick red flesh where her panties have been hastily pushed aside.

Above them, McCoy squeezes Kirk’s shoulder and grunts approvingly in his traditionally taciturn style. Kirk continues to play with the fan of Uhura’s hair where it splays across his lap, fingers curling and stroking in the silky strands as he grins at all and sundry in a frankly beatific manner. Soft fingers skate along his arm and up to the shoulder unclaimed by McCoy, and Kirk allows himself to be drawn into a kiss.

“Oh, _Keptin_ ,”Chekov sighs, low and tender as the glide of his tongue against Kirk’s swollen bottom lip. Leaning his weight against the arm of the Chair, Chekov is all soft, sweet-smelling boy in his arms, licking into his Captain’s mouth, searching for a taste as he slides his hands under that golden uniform shirt, stroking, gripping, tugging, until the fabric gives with a splitting rip. McCoy is moved from benevolent contemplation to help free him from the tattered remains, patting his chest twice, above the heart, in reassurance. Chekov’s tongue plays close and wet around his left nipple, tiny kittenish licks as he noses gently, Eskimo kiss, into Kirk’s heated arm pit. Not one to forgo a golden opportunity, the good doctor runs a hand down to Kirk’s other nipple and viciously twists.

“ _Christ_ , Bones,” Kirk spits, but he’s licking his lips.

Chekov’s curls tease at his chest, and Kirk is caught between hands and mouths and desires, alive to sensation. Someone is sucking at his neck. His crew, using him at their pleasure – branding him with their casual lusts. It’s Sulu, _SuluSuluSuluohfuckSulu_ , and Jim shakes as Sulu latches on to that tender skin with sharp teeth, soothing the mark with broad sucking swipes even as it purples against the golden pallor of his skin. Short, nipping bites are scattered across his clavicle, down the centre of his chest until Sulu twines the fingers of one hand into Chekov’s curls, with ease, and brings their mouths together for a messy, lewd, open-mouthed kiss.

“I believe it is time, Captain, that you take this situation in hand.”  

There’s an expression on Kirk’s face, something like rapture and disbelief, because those words from his second in command could never be a joke but in that deep down rusty rumble of a voice they’re too suggestive for him to stand. Spock has remained apart thus far, not so much as an eyebrow raised, but he’s strangely leaning against the console nearest and directly opposite the Chair, not as if he needs the support but somehow as if he desires both to be seen and to see all. His body is long and lean as ever, not a hair out of place though one hand cups confidently, calmly, against the bulge distending his uniform pants, and the crests of his ears and cheeks are tinted bright-shocking green, pupils swallowed up with black.

Kirk visibly fights the urge to giggle -- absurd -- and tilts his head back against the body-warmed leather of the Chair, rubbing, rubbing, like a cat; enjoying the murmurs of appreciation for the cunning, stretching, curvature of his spine. There are hands in his, sweaty and curiously intimate slide and lock of fingers meeting fingers, palms kissing palms. And then those hands are delivering dicks, thick and swollen both, drooling precome into his eager waiting grip and ---

“Fuck, look at that.”

“Such a fucking slut for it, such a _whore_.”

\-- and he wants it. Clearly, undeniably, he wants it: their touch, their tongues, their cocks and cunts and cruel, hot-hard words. He’s squeezing and pumping like a pro, trying to pull them closer, pull them in, needs to be _stuffed-fucked-owned_ but he’s empty and it’s burning him up inside, crackle-singing in the air.

“Sure,” that’s McCoy, casual as an annual check-up to Kirk’s right, “but he’s _our_ whore, boys.” Words like hypo of _purefuckingwant_ to the balls. “You’re our good little whore, aren’t you, Jim,” nothing but warm approval in his voice.

And Jim would undoubtedly have replied in the resounding affirmative, but right then his mouth is fully occupied by the fat pulsing thickness of McCoy’s cock, crammed in past his limits, jaw stretched and aching, _going for the throat_ , so nothing escapes but an ecstatic grunt. Sulu and Chekov are still being milked for all they’ve got, tongue fucking something _dirty-hot-wrong_ above it all. Uhura seems to have grown bored with her novelty-sized cock lollipop (though Kirk is still as hard, purple-red and straining, as he was when this started), and now she’s rubbing his over-sensitised length between her _perfect perfect_ bare tits, squeezed in nice and slick and tight as she tweaks her own nipples and contemplates his belly button like she’s figuring the logistics of what’s best to stick in there.

Kirk is by this time of course fully naked, Uhura never one to let any obstacle stand in her path, and the wet squeak of flesh on leather sounds in delicious counterpoint to the fact that most of his crew remain mostly or completely clothed and regulation uniformed as they frott and fuck themselves on his body.

His eyes have slid closed, and this may be the reason for his small shudder of surprise as the slow, deliberate tap of two fingers against his cheek. Kirk’s eyes fly open and he sees McCoy’s flushed face, all concentration on the slide of his cock between Kirk’s wide-stretched lips. And then, over McCoy’s shoulder -- Spock. _Spock’s_ fingers paint a curious little circle against his cheek, sticky with Kirk’s own spit as it escapes helplessly from Kirk’s gaping mouth. It takes a second and then Kirk groans, shudders against all the flesh pressed against him, because Spock is tracing, so tenderly, the distended curve of his cheek, the depraved stretch and bulge of McCoy’s huge cock as he fucks Jim’s mouth like he _deserves_.

Those fingers trace back to stretch-strained corner of Kirk’s mouth and tap again, twice, permission asked and granted. Tears form at the corner of Kirk’s eyes, unheeded, as Spock pushes aside the thrusting mass of McCoy’s cock to trace the slick inside of his cheek, to press down against his tongue and stretch and play and make way. Spock’s face remains unchanged, but he is slightly shaking, hip flexors tensed to keep from thrusting at empty air. A few thrusts more and McCoy withdraws. Kirk is both disappointed and grateful that he can now draw Spock’s fingers more deeply between his lips, sucking and slurping greedily as he rubs circles against sensitive finger tips with the flat of his tongue.  

“You want this, Captain.” Spock’s voice is a low, hypnotic, hum: confident, and familiar as his own. “Perhaps you have always desired that a scenario such as this play out between yourself and your crew.” A brief pause, an eyebrow scantly raised. “ _For the good of the many_ , Captain? Logical, indeed… But a lie, of omission if nothing else. You want this.”

There seems to be some sort layered secret communication passing between them, though this conversation is hardly private and Kirk cannot say a word. “You are _tumescent_. Erect and ready and _willing_ to receive whatever we should deign to gift thee. In your heart of heart, James Kirk – in your dream of dreams – you want only to be ours. To be bathed in the milk and honey of our desire, to feast on the bounty of our flesh and be nourished by the consummation of our union.” Slow, something nearly ceremonial. Jim has no choice but to leap willingly into that void, the expectant silence that follows Spock’s words, the almost-invitation in fingers withdrawn to rest against his swollen lip.   

“Yes,” he says, clear as present danger.

Then the fingers are back in his mouth, curved against his tongue and then the roof of his mouth; feeling him, learning him, gagging him. “ _Fa-wak tor du ra karthau._ ”

“He says,” Uhura whisper-hums against his ear, as if to remind him that they are not alone here, not in this, “ _you will do as I command_.” Clarification as to exactly _whose_ bidding he is to do does not seem immediately necessary or desired.

Sulu and Chekov have taken to exchanging wet, open kisses _around_ his cock, but they rise and step back easily enough with a subtle motion of Spock’s hand. Spock takes a step backward, away from the Chair, and Kirk is helpless but to follow, mouth seeking fingers, fingers seeking hard Vulcan flesh, and he rises from the Chair, following where Spock leads. He doesn’t get more than a step or two though before Spock takes the hand not claiming his mouth and closes his long sensitive fingers gently around his neck. A pause, less gentle press, and Kirk obediently stills… waiting.

Hot Vulcan breath against his cheek and not a word but the cruel perfect brand of that hotter-than-human tongue around the vulnerable curve of his ear. Kirk whines. As punishment or something else, Spock withdraws his fingers, turns and firmly strokes both hands Kirk’s bare chest, gliding in his fever-sweat and coaxing him back into unyielding Vulcan embrace, until they are pressed together shoulder to hip, ass to lamentably clothed cock. In a smooth motion like something out of the _V’Shan_ , Spock slides both hands to cup Kirk’s shoulders and prompt his body to bend, present, before extending the move to caressingly encompass Kirk’s arms, shoulder to wrist, and bring them flexing back, hands gathered and held. Then, again, he waits.  

Moment, maybe two, and then Kirk spits and writhes and tries to hump his naked ass back against the rough synthesised wool of his First Officer’s pants. “Do it, fucking _do it_ , you bastard.” The grip of those hands, strong enough to crush skulls and twist metal and make him, _make him_ , is implacable. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he hisses, angry and arching like a cat in heat.

“ _Ikap'uh t'du ru'lut_ ,” Spock snarls, and the hand not holding Jim’s wrists at the small of his back, makes a sharp crack as it slaps across his round naked ass, once… twice… and again. He might want to feel those narrow hips pressed bare and hard against him there but all he gets is the sharp stinging rake of Spock’s efficiently short nails across his cheeks: four precise white trails, stark and lovely against tender, blushing skin.

“Shut your mouth,” Uhura echoes dreamily, somewhat delayed, but nearly purring as she rubs one finger against her clit in hard little circles. She’s still wearing her panties, though skirt and bra and everything else is gone. She seems to be enjoying the friction, or maybe the picture she makes with her acres of silken, sweat-beaded chocolate skin, taut-toned _fightorfuck_ strength, and that soaked-near-clear patch of see-through black something the only thing between them. 

And then she’s coming for him.

Coming _at_ him, determined glint in her eye.

Spock hands him over with suspicious ease.

“Okay, yes, fine, but first--” Kirk pants, jagged and delirious, “First you have to promise…”

“What?” Uhura’s grip in his short hair is sure, long almond nails pressed against his scalp in a warning caress as she forcibly bends his neck back until the seat cushions his head, thumb skating gentle behind his ear.

“Promise you’ll never again deny my skills as a _cunning linguist_.”

Uhura laughs like she can’t help it, a lovely high peeling thing, and McCoy sighs. “Show me,” she says, moves her hands to grip the arms of the Chair, and straddles his face. 

As if that would shut him up. He’s gagging for it, completely willing to choke himself on pussy, its slick-soft-swollen lips and secret places, but her panties are still in the way and he doesn’t have the leverage to get at them with his teeth. Uhura doesn’t seem overly concerned. Kneeing up onto the Chair -- athletic -- she’s quick to start riding his face, grinding her dripping cunt against his chin and nose and open gasping mouth. Her thighs are slick-shiny with her juices, and Kirk’s face is quickly wet with it, wet with _her_ , but he’s making embarrassingly frustrated whining noises even as he strives to rub his tongue against her clit because she’s teasing him, torturing him, and she won’t let him _taste_ her.

Before he can escalate to fully vocalised protests, familiar Vulcan fingers are interceding, tangling with his desperately imploring tongue, and somehow – _blessed_ , fucking _be_ – tearing that flimsy barrier away, ripping Uhura’s little weapon of mass erection into two still shamefully arousing shreds. Almost in the same instant, the same motion, Kirk has an arm wrapped around her waist, broad hand pressed firmly to her belly to pull her down, pull her in, and his thick clever tongue thrust deep up into her grasping, shuddering cunt because she’s coming again, on his tongue, on his face – wet and wild and screaming for it.

When her quaking stops, she shifts herself and bends to press a brief closed-mouth kiss against his lips and whispers into the secret space between them, _“‘Tresahk-tor’.”_

Then, despite the support of his arm, she starts to sort of slide bonelessly to the floor, caught deftly by McCoy before she hits the ground. Unusually tractable, Uhura just pats them both on the arm and settles there in McCoy’s lap – a prime viewing position. Before Kirk has time to wonder what – or who – is coming next, Spock appears, crouched low over their little threesome where they lie, slumped below the Chair. With one hand, whisper-light on McCoy’s hair, he tips the doctor’s head back and with two fingers of the other hand gently pushes a sodden black mess of fabric into his open mouth. McCoy nods, closing his teeth deliberately around the panties, soaked and ruined and Kirk can smell them from _here_. Spock then trails one hand languorously, if a Vulcan has ever been such a thing, down Uhura’s sternum, caressing her breasts fondly and in full view of Jim’s hungry gaze. Inexorable, Spock slides the tip of one long index finger between the swollen lips of her pussy, raising that finger slick-shiny with her come, with Jim’s spit, to his own mouth. Licking, the faint purple-green of his tongue curling – curiously, deliberately, provocatively – his eyes never leave Jim’s.

Jim moves to reach, to touch, to join, but Spock stops him with a look. Grasping McCoy’s hand at the wrist, over his shirt, Spock guides it in a phantom caress until McCoy slides the heal of his palm against her clit, two capable middle fingers thrusting, curling, deep inside as she _mmm hmmms_ with lazy eyes and a lazy smirk. Spock hasn’t said a word.

Jim is struggling to stand, using the Chair for support, when their reverential silence is broken.

 _“Hafa'uh! Nam'tor du kobat_. _”_ Still just their eyes are locked, bodies out of reach, but Jim Kirk stills instantly as though he feels those words in his very bones.

Uhura huffs, half-laughter, half moan. “His Vulcanness bids you _stay_. ‘You are weak’. I think the ‘hands-off’ was implied.”

He is weak; not like a man sick, but a man hungry – desperate – and sat before a great feast. The Captain knows this to be true.

But he is not to be left to starve in the wilderness of his fantasies. Spock unfolds from his crouch and approaches, herding Kirk up and back into the Chair. One palm he presses over Kirk’s heart, five fingers splayed, and kneels supplicant before him. The other hand, Spock holds out to his left, fingers crooked and beckoning. Sulu and Chekov reappear from somewhere – perhaps they never left – and the boy bends to kiss McCoy deeply before coming to him, teasingly drawing those panties from his lips as they briefly mock-fight and growl like dogs over a bone. Then Chekov, wet and loose already somehow, is sliding down Kirk’s cock in one practised motion, riding him, and Jim _screams_.

Sulu kisses him silent, licking up his pleading moans and feeding him gentle laughter. His hand is on Chekov’s cock, a pretty pink thing, and Kirk’s hands are clinging to the Chair for dear life.

_…Too much, too much._

And. And how is it – impossible, _impossible_ – that he hasn’t come yet? Uhura might be on her way to some sort of inter-galactic record from the sounds of it, but the actual, _promised_ , lashing waves of jizz have yet to be forthcoming from Kirk… or any of the four other men using him as their personal fleshy glory hole. He wants to be fucking _baptised_ , born anew and covered in come.

Chekov is sliding, grinding Kirk’s cock deep up in his ass and the little shit is _clenching_ like he’s just having a grand ol’ time while Sulu slurps grossly at his perfect pink bobbing dick. Kirk can’t see for Checkov’s bouncing enthusiasm but there’s a tickle at his hole, and possibly in his mind, that suggests Spock has not been sitting idly by. There are those fingers again, not tapping this time but sliding home first one, and then another, then a third, like they’ve been away too long and missed him and thought about this _every day_. His ass is spread, gasping, grasping for it but there’s something more. There’s a slick-hot tingle like someone’s been sucking on wintergreens, and he’s on fire inside and out in the dirtiest and _best_ fucking possible way.

He doesn’t connect the dots, not until he hears this –

“Ah shit, fuck, so wrong and yet so very fucking hot.” Moaning, bemoaning McCoy, and Uhura grunting some sort of muffled assent.

\-- that’s when it hits him. The tingle, the lube, the half-heard sound of the last fleet-issued zipper being disposed of. The now remembered fact that Vulcan males self-lubricate to achieve more efficient penetration.

That’s when he starts, can’t stop, and he’s chanting, chanting an endless litany of _pleasepleaseplease_ in every language, real and imagined, that he knows. He needs to _come_. Or die trying.

“ _Klee-FAH!_ ”

“ _No, no, no_ ,” Kirk cries immediately, reduced to his animal parts, “ _please_. _”_

But Uhura kisses him, sweet, on the brow, and sounds almost regretful. “You are denied.”

But not denied this: the mind-shattering thrust of Spock’s cock, flared double-ridges forcing his hole wide around the wild, undeniable _force_ of that thrust. Split, speared, and taken.

Somewhere, someone is screaming again, but Kirk is at once disconnected from his body and connected to all of them on some elemental, atomic level.

“Now, Jim,” McCoy rumbles at him, good-naturedly, from somewhere behind Spock, Spock who is leaning forward, legs spread in a wide brace stance, and pushing Jim’s legs impossibly higher, bent back over Chekov’s pulsing-grinding hips. “Just _relax_.”

He’s being ripped – torn – apart, body and soul remade.

 _“Nufau au sochya - yi dungi ma tu sochya,”_ Spock growls, a terrible perversion of the Teachings of Surak, but prayer and blessing both. Because there are two dicks splitting his ass wide, a hot-tight boy-cunt riding him, and disembodied tongues fucking at his ear and his mouth and possibly his very soul. He has no choice but to take – and to give.

He was made for this.

When McCoy comes in his ass, Kirk feels is. Feels it, and feels it again, as every pleasure is doubled and fed-back upon itself. They withdraw, and fat cocks are replaced with long, slim fingers that play at his gaping, leaking hole. Spock waits, Kirk can feel it, and enjoys the game of stroke-fuck-pushing McCoy’s come back up inside his eager defeated hole. He waits until Chekov comes clenching like a vice around his dick, young clear spunk striping Kirk from naval to chin. Sulu is quick to follow, slow and thorough as he rubs his own come in to Kirk’s sweat-matted chest hair, edge of a thumb nail quick and sharp on swollen nipple. Uhura slides her dripping fingers into his mouth, so gently: an echo, a goodbye. She kisses him quiet, though he is all stillness and waiting now, and shares her taste with him.

Until Spock is the last one standing before him. _“Sarlah etek dvin-tor,”_ he announces (finally, _finally_ )and shoots his load across Kirk’s tongue, nose, and soft golden eyelashes. _We come to serve._

Kirk: defiled, and depraved, and deified - blessed - smiles and licks fastidiously as the come sliding past the corner of his mouth. “ _Vu dvin dor etwel_ ,” he says, and for the benefit of those without at least conversational Vulcan, “Your service honours us.”

Almost as one the ensigns and mid-level deck crew who form the rest of Beta shift, arranged - as they have been for two hours and fifty-nine minutes - in a perfect ring around the tableau in the Chair, salute.

…Someone may start a slow clap.

And everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

Crossing one knee over the other, Kirk spun his desk chair side-to-side a little, contemplatively, then transferred and saved the file to his private, encrypted, drive.

Unpaused the recorder.

 

_Signing off,_

_Captain James T. Kirk._

**Author's Note:**

> V’Shan: Traditional Vulcan martial art, now something like Tai-Chi, taught at Starfleet Academy. 
> 
> Tresahk-tor: verb, ‘to rip’ (into pieces).
> 
> Nufau au sochya - yi dungi ma tu sochya: ‘Offer them peace, then you will have peace” – one of the Teachings of Surak.
> 
> Sarlah etek dvin-tor/ Vu dvin dor etwel: Actually a formal Vulcan greeting and response.
> 
> Everything else, Uhura translates fairly faithfully. Otherwise, don’t be afraid to ask. If you would like to discuss Choices, drop me a line in the comments.
> 
> Most Vulcan language sourced from this excellent page: http://www.starbase-10.de/vld/main.php?cmd=browsecat&brcat=phrase 
> 
>  
> 
> Inspired in no small part by this eloquent kinkmeme prompt: http://trekkink.livejournal.com/896.html?thread=58496#t58496 
> 
> Written in one aweful go, and unbeta’ed, so please pardon but point out any spelling errors, grammatical whatsits or general nonsense. ~4000 words of straight-up porn in all its glorious permutations, fml. And I joined AO3 for this shiz.


End file.
